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Sunday, August 4, 2013

“A Bucket of Clams” by Suzanne Burchell

All I wanted to do that summer
day was to surprise my Nan with a bucket of fresh dug clams. Nan loved nothing
better than rinsing the mud off clams and boiling them on the wood stove in a
bucket of sea water. We would shuck the clams when their shells opened in the
steamy pot after they cooled off.

Nan would take the bowl of
fresh clams and she would make the best chowder in all the world. Sometimes we
just melted butter and would eat them with our fingers fresh out of the shell
right there in the kitchen dripping butter and slurping the little suckers
back.

Other times we would wait for
night and put the clams in a copper pot over a drift wood fire on the beach. I
heard the grownups say that there was a baby in every bucket of clams. For a
long time I thought they meant that they boiled babies and this made me sad.
When I got older I realized what they really meant about how the babies came
from a bucket of clams.

It was blueberry season and all
the grownups had all geared up to go to the fields to pick the berries for jams
and pies. They would be gone all afternoon. I was allergic to black fly bites.
The last time I went scooping my eyes swelled shut and my neck went stiff for a
week from the bites. The flies would be bad today with this scorching sun and
not a breeze. I was some glad to be able to stay home. So the grownups left me
home and Nan said not to go out of the door yard.

They had barely left the yard and were scarce
out of sight when the great idea to surprise my Nan came to mind. The tide was
out and the clams were just waiting for me to come and get them. So I got the
fork, digging boots and the clam bucket and headed for the beach down the road
past Grant’s General store and past the old wharf.

Boy would Nan ever like a
bucket full up with fresh Fundy clams. I knew that the best digging place was
just beyond the sand bar in the harbour.

Sure enough the tide was out as
far as it could go. I left my knapsack on the beach and headed out past the
wharf. Some trawlers sitting on the sandy bottom tied up to the wharf sitting
waiting for the next tide before they went out for scallops or lobster. No one
was around, not even a tourist.

Out I went across the mud flat.
The sand and mud sucked at my boots so the going was slow. Twice I stepped
right out of the boots. Finally I passed the sand bar and caught sight of all
the little squirt holes that showed me where the clams were hiding under the
mud. When I stepped close to the holes they would shoot water right out.

There were hundreds of holes so
I got digging. The fork went into the mud real smooth and exposed the shells of
the clams. I snatched them one by one, proud as could be to be doing this all
by myself. My bucket filled fast.

The sun beat down on my neck
and soon I was hot and tired from digging and bending so much and hauling the
bucket. I sat right down in the mud wishing I had not left my knapsack with a
drink in it on the shore. It was too far to go and get it. What was I thinking
to do that?

There was no breeze just summer
heat that made me real sleepy. I stuck the fork in the mud and stretched out
beside the bucket for a wee nap right there in the mud. Maybe I’ll dig a few
more in a little while. The bucket was not that heavy or full yet.

What woke me was a salty taste
and water in my ears. My hair was soaking wet and so were my clothes. The water
was about six inches deep already. The tide had turned and I could hear its roar
coming in. The fork had floated away and my bucket had tipped over letting
loose the clams in the water. I knew how fast the thirty-two feet of water could come
so I started hiking back to shore empty bucket in hand fast as I could.

The going was slow. In no time
the water was up to my waist so I let go of the bucket. The water covering my
boots sucked them away when I tried to run. In a few minutes the water was up
to my waist and I was not even half way to shore making no head way at all. A
wind had picked up making waves that slapped at me and sprayed stinging briny
water into my eyes.

How many times had I laughed at
tourists running from the tide when they had gone out too far and tried to get
back to shore? How many times had I laughed when their gear had been washed
away by the tide water? No laughing now as the tide came up to my neck.

My Uncle Walter and I had sat
in his truck last summer and watched some tourists in their tent scramble out
when the waves came in. We sat and just howled, ’cause we had tried to warn
them in the afternoon not to camp there. They just said this is was not our
beach and they would camp wherever they wanted. They were so rude we did not
tell them why they could not camp there ’cause Fundy has the highest tides in
the world. Served them right.

I did not know how to swim. I never learned ’cause
the water was too cold to stay in long enough even in summer. Only the crazy
tourists went in swimming. I think it was because they drove so far that they
wanted their money’s worth. They always screamed from the cold but they stayed
in until they were blue. We thought they were ‘some’ nutty.

As I grew colder I thought of
the two brothers who drowned this winter when they went to check their lobster
traps in the pools out on the bay at low tide in January. They got stuck way
out when their ATV would not start. Neither were swimmers. They never did find
their bodies. The tide got them.

They found their boots on the
bottom of the bay and the ATV when the tide went out. People said they died
real fast from hypo something. They could not swim either but it would not have
saved them anyway ’cause it was too cold. It made me wonder how long it was
going to take for me to die.

I thrashed around swallowing
mouthful after mouthful of salty water. Then I remembered the tourist who would
float on her back for hours. She did not seem to mind the cold. Dead man’s
float she called it. I put my arms out and threw my head back and let my legs
and feet float up. I was so cold I could hardly feel them.

Out the side of my eye I could
see the cape and lighthouse come into view. I was floating out to sea in a
strong current that would take me to the Dory Rips where the three incoming
tides meet. I would be a goner in those whirlpools and six-foot waves. Would
the sharks eat me, I wondered.

The frigid water bit right
through to my bones. I did not fancy the idea of dying that day and never being
found.

I just wanted to hug my Nan one
more time. I told God I was sorry for being bad and could He help me now? I promised I would be good forever and always
do what I was told. I prayed like crazy over and over. I told God I was sorry
for laughing at the tourists when their tent floated away.

The roar of the Dory rips grew
louder. What a way to die being sucked into a whirlpool and drowning and me
only ten years old. Then came a tiny vibration in the water. It must be a shark
coming to get me was all I could think. The vibration turned into a sound of an
engine. I lifted my head to see what it was and went under.

When I came up voice hollered,
“There she is boys.”

There was a splash and someone
shouting, “Hang in there little girl.”

Two arms wrapped around me and began to swim
me toward the boat. It was young Captain Danny who had dived off his lobster
trawler to save me. On board they wrapped me in blankets and made me drink hot
tea. I shivered and cried and threw up all at once.

Seems the new school teacher
was beach combing looking for sea glass when he spotted my knapsack where I had
left it on the beach. Lucky for me the tide did not come up that far to take
away the knapsack. The teacher put two and two together ’cause he had heard
they were looking for me. They had to wait for enough water to come in to float
the trawler.

Captain Danny smiled at me but he was crying.
He told me it just wasn’t my time to go. His daughter, Sara, was in my same
grade.

The lobster boat tied up at the
wharf where I could see my Nan waiting with a bunch of other villagers and the
Minister. No one was talking. She had a soggy hanky in her hand. I climbed up
onto the wharf and walked toward my Nan.

All Nan said was, “Did you have
a full bucket, dear?”

Suzanne Burchell retired from teaching secondary
school drama after 38 years but continues to lecturer in Drama in
Education at Brock University. She is developing a new profession as a story
teller in Ontario after having a lengthy time of story-telling in the summer in
her homeland of Nova Scotia. “A Bucket of Clams” was previously published
on CommuterLit.

Brian Henry has been a book editor, writer, and creative writing instructor for more than 25 years. He teaches creative writing at Ryerson University. He also leads weekly creative writing courses in Burlington, Mississauga, Oakville and Georgetown and conducts Saturday workshops throughout Ontario. His proudest boast is that he has helped many of his students get published.